We live on the flat, on the level, and yet - and so - we aspire. Groundlings, we can sometimes reach as far as the gods. Some soar with art, others with religion; most with love. But when we soar, we can also crash. There are few soft landings. We may find ourselves bouncing across the ground with leg-fracting force, dragged towards some foreign railway line. Every love story is a potential grief story. If not at first, then later. If not for one, then for the other. Sometimes, for both.

You lose the world for a glance? Of course you do. That is what the world is for: to lose under the right circunstances.

May you be ordinary, as the poet once wished the new-born baby.

Perhaps the world progresses not by maturing, but by being in a permanent state of adolescence, of thrilled discovery.

You grew old first not in your own eyes, but in other people's eyes; then, slowly, you agreed with their opinion of you.

Books say: She did this because. Life says: She did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren't. I'm not surprised some people prefer books.

Time...give us enough time and our best-supported decisions will seem wobbly, our certainties whimsical.